Not much of a love story...not much of a story at all
It's not a love story...dunno, I was lookin' through some of word files, figured I'd post this...
Anthony Choi
6/15/04
Untitled
I watched the night as it rained. It was fairly light for a thunderstorm, but who was I to judge? Sitting as closely as possible to the door there was little cover from the cool wetness. I stared blankly, gazing at one object to another. There wasn’t much to look at really, my father’s house was in the middle of a housing complex, almost hidden away from the other Northeast Philly neighborhoods. So in other words, I wasn’t looking out at a street, but rather a parking lot of sorts.
Cars were strewn about, squatting in what little space was left to park. Illuminated by the eight foot street lamps, there was scarcely a place to hide. Hide from what? I didn’t know. But I felt hidden, secluded, and lonely, despite the fact my cousin was just inside playing videogames. I wanted to walk, walk far away, but the sky lit up a light blue for less than a second followed by a rolling thunder reminding me why I hadn’t already started on my feet. Not that I really would have minded getting wet, but it’s not as easy to enjoy a nocturnal stroll when your vision is blurred by the water droplets collected on your glasses.
Pondering the time I went to grab my cell phone before I realized I had left it inside. It wasn’t even worth the effort of getting it. I had one of those little flip phones, it was silver, and even had a color screen and camera to boot. I hated it. It had such an annoying ring tone, I felt like a fag whenever it rang in public. But it’s all superficial really, just like life. I almost began to contemplate the thought further when I decided it wasn’t worth the inner turmoil it would eventually cause me.
That was always one of my problems, I thought too much about issues like that. Life, death, morality, the same damn things geniuses and drunkards have been pondering for hundreds of years. Where did it get them? I don’t have a ****ing clue, but I do know it never got me very far.
Suddenly the door next door opened and closed. I heard the sound of a lighter and seconds later cigarette smoke permeated the air. It was the Russian next door. Often enough did I come here to find him outside with a cigarette in his mouth, staring, just as I was this night. Lightening flashed again and a gust of moist wind pressed against my face. I took one last look at the desolate lot before turning in reluctantly to my little prison.
